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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27785698">it's brighter now</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/safeandsound13/pseuds/safeandsound13'>safeandsound13</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The 100 (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Drunk!Clarke, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, New Year's Resolutions, bellamys friends suck and thats on canon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-11 01:13:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,006</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27785698</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/safeandsound13/pseuds/safeandsound13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke's New Year's resolution makes Bellamy slightly homocidal.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>136</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>395</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Bellarke Secret Santa 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>it's brighter now</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/andthelightbulbclicks/gifts">andthelightbulbclicks</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>hello miss andthelightbulbclicks. this is for your prompt: character a is insecure about something and character b goes out of their way to comfort character a. im sorry this is late. life, you know? hope you enjoy this regardless. i am a big fan :) happy new years!</p><p>song in title is from daylight by guess who. yes im aware taylor swift has a song named after new years day and its on reputation of all albums. yes that songs gives me hives straight from the fifth astral plane of cringeyness. good day.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Clarke doesn’t get drunk often, she knows her limits and usually has an early morning shift to worry about or a late night drive over to his place. But, Monty’s cocktails have a way of both being too good to resist and disguising their true percentage of alcohol until it’s too late and you’re nearing a black-out.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s like lemonade,” she yells into his ear after guzzling her fourth one of the night, unaware of the lull in between strict EDM-based songs and their group of friends sending her a mixture of intrigued to amused glances. Harper sends him a questioning thumbs up, at which he just rolls his eyes. It’s her damn husband who got them into this situation in the first place.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Take a sip of this,” Bellamy offers, jutting his drink into her direction with a raise of his eyebrow. “It’s really good.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She chugs it down at once, scrunching up her nose halfway through. “This is just water.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Knowing somewhere between drink two and five Clarke turns incredibly stubborn to the point it’s beyond any and all rationality, he figured it’d be better to trick her. He’d been counting on her brain to work sluggishly enough to pull it off, and he was right. “It just tastes different in these parts of town.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She bats her eyes slowly, a flirtatious smirk starting to break across her face as she trails her hand down his chest slowly, stopping just above his belt. “I know something else that tastes really good.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Their midnight kiss is on Raven’s bathroom floor, to the base of her neck as he holds her damp hair back and softly strokes his free hand up and down her spine. He laughs at the groan that slips from her lips, echoing around the room and blending in with the drowned out music playing from the living room. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Happy New Year,” Clarke mumbles, wiping her mouth with the palm of her hand. She sags into his side, his arm coming up around her shoulders automatically. ”Hopefully this isn’t an omen.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Maybe a life lesson about hang-overs.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We can have a real kiss in a second. I just need to get up and brush my teeth.” She makes a move to lift her head off his chest before letting out another groan instead.  “Once the room stops spinning.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He kisses her damp forehead, rubbing up and down her arm comfortingly. Into her hairline, he mutters, “You wanna go home?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clarke starts shaking her head, her blonde hair bristling his neck. Apparently the room’s stopped spinning already, because she presses a dry kiss to his jaw, pushing herself up to her feet. She only falters slightly, stumbling back into the counter before offering him a hand and a blinding smile. “I wanna dance.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>With a sigh, Bellamy lifts his head off the cold tiles, taking her hand. She holds up his arm doing a little twirl, which makes him smile, even as she bumps her back into his chest, forcing him to hold up all her weight. He taps her nose. “As long as we make no more detours to the bathroom.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I think it was the drink you gave me earlier.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m sure it was the water and not the entire lime you tried to eat,” Bellamy retorts, voice dripping with sarcasm.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She tugs on his hand, leading him out of the bathroom. “Exactly.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Once she’s passed the point of being too loud and just a tiny bit pervy, and instead has turned into nothing but quiet slurs about Keanu Reeves and using Bellamy as a life-sized crutch, he figures it’s time to take her home. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He feeds her one last chip from the plate of food she made him get from the snack table, ignoring Murphy who’s literally pointing and staring at them. She opens her mouth and he half-heartedly rolls his eyes, putting the potato chip inside. “Let’s get out of here.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her brows furrow together, her mouth still half full. “Hey, I have a boyfriend.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know,” he says, endeared, letting out a huff. “I am your boyfriend. “</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clarke finally opens her eyes, blinking at him profusely with her blue eyes, glazed over from alcohol and confusion. “Bellamy?’</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He chuckles lowly, placing the plate on a side table, wiping his hands on the back of his jeans. “I think we have to add ‘might lose eyesight’ to the list of possible side-effects of Monty’s mix drinks.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I think he should go to jail.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Exactly. A minimum of ten years,” he plays along, pulling her up from the couch. Bellamy tugs down the skirt of her short sequin dress at the back, making sure she doesn’t involuntarily flash anyone. “Maybe Harper too, for being an accessory.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What did I do?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re way too hot and it’s making me feel sick.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think I’m the one making you feel sick, babe.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Look at you,” she mutters, gagging. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know if I should be thanking you or apologizing.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He helps her put on her coat before waving goodbye at their friends, not trusting Clarke to be left alone right now. She might pass out and hit her head, or confuse the coat-rack for him. Emori booes them for leaving before first daylight, but there’s a chorus of strained ‘bye’s’ that follow them out through the door that make him think not many of the others will make it much longer either. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The drive back is quiet, Clarke in the passenger seat snoring as the podcast about medical malpractices she’s been making him listen to rages on quietly. He’s actually kind of invested at this point. Bellamy gets her inside of his apartment with minimal force by mentioning Keanu Reeves, sitting her down on the toilet as he makes her brush her teeth. He keeps an eye on her while he does the same, Clarke rubbing at her tired eyes while she brushes, not realizing she’s smearing her make-up everywhere. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She stumbles over to his bedroom with his hands on her hips from behind to steady her, Clarke already awkwardly reaching behind her to unzip her dress. He dips into his closet for a second to take out one of his shirts, finding her sitting on his bed in her underwear. There’s a thoughtful pout of concentration on her face as her hands move behind her back, and she’s making a lot of frustrated noises in the back of her throat, so he ends up helping her unclip her bra before pulling the shirt over her head. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Keanu isn’t here, is he?” Clarke mumbles, still staring at the same spot on the carpet as he returns from the bathroom with the make-up wipes she keeps over in his cabinet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tries to smooth away her frown with his thumb. “No, sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What about Megan Fox?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A small chuckle rumbles deep in his chest, shaking his head lightly. “She couldn’t make it. Close your eyes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clarke lets out a pensive hum, as if completely empathetic of Megan Fox’s busy schedule, letting him try to wipe off her extensive eyeshadow as gingerly as possible. He’s kind of sorry to see the whole look go, but he knows how bad she’ll feel in the morning if she’s slept with it on so the decision’s easily made.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This glitter won’t budge,” he complains, mostly to himself, frowning at how there seems to be even more glitter than before. And it’s literally everywhere.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you make a wish?” She wonders, eyes still closed, her face completely relaxed as he works. He figures she’s probably half asleep. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A wish?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“At twelve.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh. He gives up on her eyes, moving on to her cheeks and the mostly faded red lipstick on her mouth. “A resolution?’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My resolution is—was?” She frowns, then her eyebrows jump up toward her hairline, pride in her voice. “Will be!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There we go,” he encourages her, throwing the third wipe in the trash can by his nightstand right from where he’s standing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My resolution will be to be more</span>
  <em>
    <span> fun</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” she confesses, completely neutral.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” He clarifies, half-distracted as he takes out the clips that were holding the top of her hair back on each side at the start of the evening. Near the end, not so much, but they look uncomfortable to sleep in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wanna be more fun, Bell—” She hiccups, fingers grasping onto his wrist temporarily to keep him still. “—amy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re fun,” he insists, brushing her hair back from her face to collect it into a low ponytail at the back of her head. She opens her eyes when he starts tugging on the elastic around her wrist, staring up at him with an almost innocent kind of drunk confusion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then she lets out a scoff, as if suddenly remembering something. “I know what they say,” Clarke says casually, rolling her eyes as she leans back on her hands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gives her a once-over, and when he’s satisfied that she looks close enough to how she usually looks before going to bed, he asks, “Who?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Raven. And Murphy.” She scrunches her nose, sticking out her tongue. “And Echo.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bellamy chuckles, placing a loose strand of her blonde hair back behind her ear. “Yeah, we still don’t like her, huh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She gives him a face, as if to say ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>obviously</span>
  </em>
  <span>’, probably still not over the new addition to their friend group assuming he was single enough to make a move on. That, and he’s been told she looks like a horse. ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>It’s not even that I’m jealous or offended she thinks I’m apparently a placekeeper. I’m appalled on your behalf she thinks she’s even anywhere near your league</span>
  </em>
  <span>,’ Clarke had told him after getting home from the bar that fateful night. Forgiveness hasn’t been on the table yet so far.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not what seems to be on her mind tonight. “They think I’m uptight, and controlling, and a —” She pauses, squinting at nothing as she concentrates thoroughly before settling on, “A stuck-up bitch.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It dawns on him she’s being completely serious, that she seems to be reciting this from memory. “They said that? To your face?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not to my </span>
  <em>
    <span>face,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Clarke corrects him, entirely too nonchalantly for his liking as she adds a little shrug. He falls down beside her, full of disbelief as his fingers curl around the edge of the mattress tighter and tighter with each word she says. “But I’ve heard them. And accidentally saw the texts on Raven’s phone one time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bellamy is absolutely seething, narrowing his eyes at her as he tries to keep his voice down. It’s not </span>
  <em>
    <span>her</span>
  </em>
  <span> he’s mad at, obviously, but he doesn’t have anywhere else to direct it. “Even if they’ve said that, it’s not true.” He grits his teeth together, trying to breathe through the fury coursing through his veins. “They’re just assholes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She turns her head to look at him, slapping him in the stomach with the back of her hand. “You think so too!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I don’t,” he opposes, evenly, halfway offended, grabbing her hand before she can pull it back completely. He searches her face, trying to figure out where this is coming from.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, you do?” She uses her free hand to poke him in the forehead, laughing cutely. “Remember. You said I don’t know how to have fun.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bellamy keeps staring at her, his brain an instant loop of static trying to figure out what she’s talking about. “When did I say this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shrugs again, struggling, “When we—before we—” Clarke sighs, frustration evident. “During our—our </span>
  <em>
    <span>courtship</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a second he forgets all about the multiple torturous ways he’s going to make it clear to his friends that they need to back off Clarke, and instead focuses on how his girlfriend, who not even two hours prior to this conversation offered to go down on him in the coat closet but struggled to pronounce the word ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>hanger</span>
  </em>
  <span>’, is now using words like ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>courtship’</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He snorts, “Our courtship?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She widens her eyes, as if that’ll help him connect the dots. “When we weren’t together. But you know, we were—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hooking up?” He offers, at the same time she says, “Fucking.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Exactly,” Clarke adds, the hand that’s trailed down from his forehead to his shoulder squeezing his bicep appreciatively. Memories seem to overtake her train of thought, because she blinks at her hand, kind of stupidly, inquiring, “What are we talking about again?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When I said you don’t know how to have fun.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right,” she nods, before pulling a disgusted face. “In that one bar with the bartender that’s your ex and the over-salted pretzels.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He lets out a huff of laughter. “You like Gina.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She cocks an eyebrow. “I don’t like the pretzels.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bellamy hums in agreement, and she sighs a little wistfully. “You were coming over straight from work in that dark blue button down shirt.” She squeezes his arm again, her voice trailing off, and he stifles a smile. He has to tug on her hand still in his to get her to continue, her face lighting up. “I was going to leave early to study—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And I didn’t know how to ask you to stay because we were pretending we didn’t like each other,” he supplies as the memory starts to come back to him, flicking his head lightly to get his curls out of his line of sight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clarke smiles widely, her voice getting more enthusiastic as if they’re playing a game and she’s winning. “So you lied and said you could beat me at pool even though we both knew I am infinite-smally better—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think that means what you think it means.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Infinite-smally better at pool but I </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>wanted to get back to my flashcards so I said I had other fun activities planned—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His face falls, his voice more quiet, near apologetic as he finishes, “And I told you you wouldn’t know fun if it hit you in your face.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” she agrees, her tone as neutral as always, and he absolutely fucking hates this. He hates it how she shuts down and pretends it doesn’t bother her, and how he’s an asshole for never noticing any of this before, and he hates how she’s too drunk to talk about it properly right now. He’s distracted from his self-loathing when her upper body falls forward, head butting into his collarbone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Babe,” he starts, a bit desperate, manhandling her into laying down on the bed instead. With one knee on the bed, he stares down at her, his forehead wrinkling with guilt. “That was just me flirting. I’m bad at it, apparently.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are,” Clarke agrees, snuggling into the blanket as she lets out a yawn. Her blue eyes start to flutter, but she struggles to keep them open, smiling a little. “It’s cute.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bellamy’s nostrils flare as he pushes out a deep huff, roughly running a hand through his hair, eyes glazing over at the memory. He had a lot of complexes when it came to Clarke back then, and one of them was definitely inferiority, jealousy intimately intertwined with it. “I also thought </span>
  <em>
    <span>fun activities</span>
  </em>
  <span> was code for a hook-up that wasn’t me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She laughs a little, her eyes now closed as she makes lazy grabby hands at him, inelegantly rolling over onto her back a little. “Sleep?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sighs in defeat, figuring now’s probably not the ideal time to discuss this, shucking his jeans and pulling his shirt over his head before falling down beside her, kissing her cheek. “Sleep.” He keeps kissing her cheek, the smacks getting louder and louder until she lets out a quiet giggle, turning her head far enough into his chest so he can’t reach her face anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell Keanu,” she mumbles against his skin, cheek hot to the touch and lips ticklish to his skin, kind of too ominously to ignore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell him what?” He humours her, moving the messy strands covering the side of her face away so he can take a better look at her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The only response he gets is a scolding, “Shhhhh,” followed by a hard punch in the gut when he moves too much while chuckling at her. “Sleep,” he echoes again, watching her face relax out of it’s frown, and proceeding to remember exactly how much he loves this girl, fitting perfectly in his arms, before falling into a slumber himself. </span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>Bellamy makes her a big New Year’s Day breakfast. He spent most of the night lying awake, getting maybe an hour and a half of fitful sleep before giving up entirely. After browsing his phone for a while and answering a few emails, he moved over to the kitchenette. He hears her groan from across his apartment as she rolls out of bed, and then, after five minutes, hears her stomp over to him, as subtle as ever. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He glances at her over the shoulder, stifling a laugh as he realizes how wrecked she looks — blonde hair a mess despite the ponytail, black eyeliner he swore he got off the night before magically caked beneath her bagged eyes and a perpetual scowl stuck on her face. “Hey babe, you remember my password for Strava?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Speaking about resolutions, he’s thinking about picking his morning runs back up. The last time he did one of those he was probably still in his early twenties. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uhm,” she starts, voice rough from sleep and regret, picking up the Advil beside the glass of water on the kitchen table and dry-swallowing it. “I think it’s probably your sister’s name with a capital, underscore 6 for my volleyball jersey number in college.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He flips the bacon in the pan, nodding his thanks before turning around and taking another good look at her. Bellamy grins, “Good morning.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She finishes chugging down the glass of water, raising her eyebrows at him. “Good morning? I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Here, have a drink,” he offers, picking up one of the mimosas he made and holding it out for her. Wisely, he adds, “The only cure to a hangover is to stay drunk.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cheers to that,” Clarke grumbles, taking the drink and then a generous sip, rubbing her temple with her free hand, probably suffering from a major headache. The bacon starts to sizzle, so he turns back around to move it around the pan, taking the pieces that are done and laying them out on one of the empty platters beside the stove. “Breakfast should be illegal on New Year’s Day.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ll call it brunch,” he quips, quiet as she ducks under his arm to lean into his side as she picks up the plate of waffles from the counter that he set out for her earlier. There’s a lull in the conversation as Clarke adjusts to the daylight properly and tears off her first piece of waffle with her hands. He offers her a fork, which she takes with a half-hearted eye-roll, still chewing. Bellamy lets the companionable silence linger for a minute longer before he presses, “About yesterday—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clarke freezes, forkful of waffle frozen halfway to her mouth as her eyes slightly widen. “Oh God. What did I do? Was it something I said? Whatever it was—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He grins at her panic. “You beat me at Quarters like seven times.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span> “Oh,” she breathes, relieved, completely sobering up. Dryly, she adds, “Do you need me to stroke your ego? Make you feel like a real man again?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is it that you are afraid you said?” Bellamy teases her, pinching her waist playfully. She yelps, sending him a glare before backtracking toward his table, sitting down on one of the chairs. “What secrets are you keeping from me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clarke gives him a stern, knowing look, picking up her mimosa to take another swig. “Can we circle back to why you got up before ten a.m. on January first to make all of this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s me showing my appreciation of my beautiful, smart, completely out of my league, hilarious, amazing girlfriend.” He bends down to kiss her temple, placing a plate of bacon in front of her as he pulls her into his side, her head resting against his abdomen. “I think you’re fun. I don’t have fun as much with anyone else as when I’m with you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She runs her hand over the forearm around her collarbone, using her free one to pick up a piece of bacon and bite a piece off. “I hope not.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bellamy gives her a little shove, sinking down in the chair at the head of the table. “I’m not talking about sex.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Recognition flashes across her eyes as it seems to dawn on her what he’s actually talking about, body tensing up visibly. She looks at him and then off to the side, her shoulders stiff as a defensive tone seeps through her words, “It’s okay, Bellamy. It was just a stupid resolution.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He reaches between her legs to pull her chair further towards his, folding his hands over her thighs as he rubs them a little. “You’re my favorite person. And I like how intense you are about things, how serious you take everything and how considerate you are when it comes to trying anything. None of those things make you any less fun.” Bellamy pauses his movements, digging his fingers in slightly instead. She still won’t look at him, even though his gaze is only on her face. “You make me so happy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re being ridiculous,” she brushes him off, obviously embarrassed, running a hand through her hair as her frown deepens. “It wasn’t that big of a deal.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why didn’t you tell me?” He asks, getting frustrated. It’s obviously a very big deal. “About Raven and—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bellamy can physically tell she’s shutting down. She sinks back in the chair, crossing her arms over her chest. Clarke fixes her gaze on a point just below his chin before forcing herself to make eye-contact, a blank look in her blue eyes. There’s a painful pang in the middle of his chest, a sickening feeling settling in the pit of his stomach. Her voice is cold, distant. “Because it doesn’t matter.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pulls back from her, giving her a disbelieving look. She can’t possibly think he’s this stupid. “It matters if you made your entire resolution about it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jesus,” she curses through gritted teeth, narrowing her eyes at him. “It’s just a dumb New Year’s resolution, Bellamy. Normal people forget about them by the time the second half of January rolls around. Stop being so dramatic.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Clarke,” he pleads, commanding, his voice rough. She can’t actually believe he’ll take this as an answer. That he’ll take the dig about him being dramatic — a sure way to start an argument — and the easy way out of having this conversation.  It hurts him, that she never felt safe enough to share this before, that she refuses to talk about it even now. It’s fucking paralyzing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The look on her face softens when she notices his eyes have started to glaze over, her shoulders sagging just a bit as she lowers her hands to her thighs. Some of the defensiveness has left her, instead replaced by resignation. “What? They’re your friends. I didn’t — I know I’m high strung, okay?” Clarke starts to list, each word more strained, “I don’t know how to relax. I know I like to be in control of things and that I can bulldoze over other people’s opinions and that I’m high maintenance, or whatever.” She closes her eyes, trying to collect herself for a moment before she presses on, giving him a shaky smile, “It doesn’t — I’m fine with it, okay? I know who I am, and most of the time I’m happy with who—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am happy with who you are,” Bellamy cuts her off, angrily. He can’t believe that someone made her feel like she wasn’t absolutely perfect. That he ever let them treat her like that. That he trusted these people who did this to her. “Every part of you. I don’t care what those idiots have to say.” He shakes his head lightly, fully realizing </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘idiots</span>
  </em>
  <span>’ are the least of what they are. Moving to the edge of his seat so their knees are brushing together, he sends her a desperate, stupidly fond smile, urging, “I like that you always plan our trips down to the timestamp and that you feel so strongly about things that sometimes you forgo all reason and rationality. I like that you’re high maintenance because I like taking care of you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clarke lifts one shoulder casually, picking up her fork to have something to do with her hands, grip tight enough to turn her knuckles white. She stares down into her lap, shaking her head a little. Quietly, she explains, “They’re your family and their opinion means so much to you —  I didn’t want to make it weird for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re my family, too,” he corrects her, adamant, one hand folding over her knee. “And they’re completely wrong about you. I’m so incredibly pissed at them, I just — I can’t —” His nostrils flare as he cuts himself off at the closed-off look on her face, realizing it’s best not to share all of his most homicidal thoughts with her right now when she already feels like she’s come in between him and his stupid fucking friends.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She mindlessly pushes at her waffle with her fork, still not looking at him. His heart strains in his chest, aching and aching worse with each beat, with each second of silence that stretches between them, as he tries to figure out how to </span>
  <em>
    <span>fix</span>
  </em>
  <span> this, how to take away her pain and make her see the truth. This is Clarke,</span>
  <em>
    <span> his</span>
  </em>
  <span> Clarke, his girl who’s usually so confident, so sure, so unapologetically herself, and now apparently has been doubting herself because of something </span>
  <em>
    <span>his</span>
  </em>
  <span> friends have been saying about her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can tell she wants this conversation to be over, but he needs her to know or he might fucking combust on the spot. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Babe.</span>
  </em>
  <span> I swear—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I believe you,” Clarke interrupts him, finally turning her head to look at him and offering him one half-assed smile as she covers his hand with hers. “I just refuse to make you pick between—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bellamy’s forehead creases as he sends her a dumbfounded look, his voice raising slightly at the assumption, “I’m not picking a side if I just call them out on their bullshit.” He forces himself to inhale sharply, calm the irregular racing of his pulse as he rakes her blue eyes with his. “And I need you to know that if I had to, I would always pick you. No question about it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because I go down on you and they don’t?” She teases lightly, squeezing his hand, the quirk of her lips familiar in a way that makes his blood run cold. He recognizes it because this is what they always do when things are hard to talk about. It’s what he does, specifically, turn things into a joke to break the tension and try to change the subject. He doesn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>want</span>
  </em>
  <span> to change the fucking subject, he wants to cry and punch someone and kiss her until she sees their lies for what they are — complete and utter bullshit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey. Don’t do that,” Bellamy tells her, soft, pleading, reaching out with his free hand to palm her cheek. “I will </span>
  <em>
    <span>always</span>
  </em>
  <span> pick you because you’re my partner, okay?” She’s staring at him, still not showing a single crack in her carefully crafted armor. “Because we promised we’d do this together. Because I’ve never loved anyone like I love you. Because you know me better than I know myself. Because one day you’ll be the one to give me children.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stop,” she breathes, although she holds his gaze through it all, face red and breathing shallow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We can start with a dog,” he jokes, moving his hand down to the junction of her neck and shoulder as a grin slowly breaks across his face. “But considering how high maintenance you are, I’ll probably have to get it and raise it by myself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bellamy,” she scolds, and even though her skin’s still hot to the touch, she’s no longer as shy about it, gaining back her footing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He brings her hand up to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the back. “I know you don’t like hearing these things but sometimes you need to.” For every time she’s talked him off the metaphorical ledge, for every time she’s let him in despite her instinct telling her not to — he knows her, and she knows him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clarke nods at her plate with a pointed look, a distinct sign she’s done talking. “The food’s getting cold.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Smooth,” he commends, a smirk splitting across his face as he fondly and briefly cups her chin before letting go of her completely with one last squeeze of her hand. He understands she’ll need time to process what he’s said, essentially promised. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She picks up the piece of bacon she left unfinished early, glancing over at him from under her eyelashes. Bellamy picks up a piece of toast, starting to slather it with jam. When he looks back up at her, she quickly averts her eyes back onto the stack of waffles, brushing her hair behind her ear. He lets out a small huff of laughter, taking the first bite of his toast with a little shake of his head. For a moment, they eat in a comfortable but loaded silence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” she mumbles, nuzzling his jaw, after lifting off her chair so she can sit down on his lap instead. He bands an arm around her waist, and she leans all of her weight back into him. Clarke’s love language is most definitely roasting him, so he knows it’s a good sign when she says, “To think I was afraid I was so drunk last night I ended up questioning your intentions with me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“First you mention our courtship, now you want to talk about my intentions?” Bellamy quips, skeptical, before nipping at her shoulder through his shirt. “None of them are any good, I promise.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clarke laughs, happy and loud, his absolute favorite sound in the world, digging her nails into the arm around her scoldingly. “Not those kind of intentions.” She turns a little in his arms, so she can look at him better, inhaling sharply. He watches her swallow, tightly, before braving on, “I was afraid drunk me almost revealed my desire to marry you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tilts his head at her, freezing underneath her completely. “Fuck you, Clarke.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her eyebrows jump, looking horrified for a moment. “You’re not serious.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She laughs, as if the sound itself catches her by surprise, raking his face. “Really?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really,” he deadpans, still glaring at her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clarke grins, even as she kisses him, even as she assures him, “I’ll pretend to be in complete shock, promise.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He scoffs. “I can just get it now, get it over with.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Get it over with?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, the surprise is ruined now anyway.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She gapes at him, only half-serious. “It took you so long I was starting to wonder if maybe you were never going to do it!’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Our anniversary is in ten days, I called Wells and planned this whole thing and—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You mean you weren’t going to wing it?” Clarke looks at him, suspiciously.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, Clarke, I wasn’t going to </span>
  <em>
    <span>wing</span>
  </em>
  <span> proposing to you,” Bellamy corrects her sharply, pulling on a messy strand of hair framing her face. He raises his eyebrows, stifling a smirk. “I even got my friends’ blessing—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Very funny,” she comments, dry, sending him a death glare.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He rolls his eyes. “Do you want the ring or not?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shrugs. “Since you already did the whole big speech thing just now, why not.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I fucking hate you,” he grumbles, patting the side of her thigh to signal her to get up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No you don’t,” she argues, matter-of-factly, popping a piece of red fruit in her mouth with a cheeky smirk. “I’m your partner and you love me and you want me to have your babies.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“God, you’re insufferable,” he calls over his shoulder as he disappears into the hallway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bellamy returns from the bedroom and thrusts out the vintage sapphire ring, to match her eyes, holding it out for her. She takes it from him, slipping it onto her small finger with a huge grin. “I’d have celebratory sex with you, but I’m really hung-over and I might throw up again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After gagging at the mere thought of his appearance just yesterday, he’s not sure he could take another blow to his ego like that. He pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing before giving her a deadpan look. “This is the least romantic thing I’ve ever been a part of, and it’s all because of you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clarke pushes herself up on her tiptoes, putting her arms around his neck as she rests her mouth against his. He presses closer, running his tongue along her bottom lip before she opens up for him, deepening it. For a moment he gets lost in it, in her warm kisses, and her scent mixed with his laundry detergent, and the taste of raspberries, and then she pulls back, breathing hard. “But it’s more fun this way, isn’t it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The challenging gleam in her blue eyes combined with her teasing smirk and the cold of the metal band of her engagement ring on the base of his neck makes him want to kiss her again, so he doesn’t postpone it any longer than he has to. “Everything’s fun with you, babe.”</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>Six months into the new year, a month into their marriage, she texts him a picture of a positive pregnancy test on the counter of their newly bought house while he’s at work. To accompany the message Clarke writes, “I think it was an omen after all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>A good one?</span>
  </em>
  <span> He texts back, just to make sure, forcing himself to take deep, calming breaths.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He puts his phone face down so he’s not distracted waiting for a return message all afternoon, but the phone buzzes after just a few seconds. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span> A very fun one</span>
  </em>
  <span> ;)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He grins a shit-eating grin, before quickly dimming it down a notch, realizing he’s still surrounded by a bunch of thirteen year olds. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Can’t wait to tell my friends.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>As long as i can break the news to echo</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m really happy. Are you happy?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m happy,</span>
  </em>
  <span> she replies, and then a few seconds later, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I love you</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I love you too. You two? I love you two.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You’re already embarrassing me</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You owe me this for stealing my proposal</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Fine, but that was your one embarrassing-dad-comment freecard</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Bellamy eyes widen as he stares at her text for a full minute, burying his hand into his hair and tugging on it anxiously. He knows his students are starting to pick up on his sudden change in behaviour, because some of them are getting restless, whispering under their breaths and passing along notes.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>That’s crazy. I’m coming home early</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Early?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Right now</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t you have classes?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I also have a pregnant wife</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Wow… when you put it like that it IS kind of crazy</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Exactly</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Hope you get here before i spiral</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Probably not but I’ll bring ice cream</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Chocolate chip?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Pistachio</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Good choice</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>After excusing himself to his students, he’s googling ‘Can pregnant women have pistachios’ on his way to pull a personal emergency on the principal. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’ll be home in twenty, okay?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Great, because that test is just staring at me now</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Remember to keep breathing, yeah?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Twenty minutes</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Twenty minutes, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he reaffirms, then, mostly for himself so he’s not the one spiraling for the entire drive home, </span>
  <em>
    <span>You’re really happy?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m really happy. And nervous. And nauseous. But happy.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Good me too, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Bellamy confesses, and then for good measure, adds, </span>
  <em>
    <span>On all of the above.</span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>leave a comment or this is my last fic of the year</p></blockquote></div></div>
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